Pain dragged him back.
Not gently.
It hooked into his consciousness and yanked him up like something pulling a corpse from a lake.
A sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes made his vision throb even before they opened. His skull felt too tight, like his brain was trying to push its way out through bone.
He gasped.
Air rushed in—
cool, clean air.
Not smoke.
Not blood.
Not heat.
His hands flew to his head, fingers digging into his hair. The touch sent a weird shock through him, prickling his scalp and spine.
He rolled with a groan, cheek scraping against—
…soft?
Grass.
He forced his eyes open.
The sky was—
Blue.
Not blood-red. Not smoke-choked.
Blue. A clear, soft blue brushed with fat white clouds drifting like they had nowhere to be.
He stared at it.
His brain refused to process.
No ash.
No screams.
No burning horizon.
Just… sky.
"What… is this…" the words slipped out of his mouth in a broken whisper. His voice sounded unfamiliar. Softer. Higher.
He stayed there for several seconds. Maybe longer. Breathing. Letting the pain behind his eyes slowly back off from "I want to die" to "I want to lie here forever."
Colors sharpened.
Green grass stretched around him, thick and alive. Not a charred, broken blade in sight. An anthill sat near his hand, tiny soldiers crawling in lines, completely unbothered by the fact that the supposed terror of the world was lying in their front yard.
A breeze washed over him.
It smelled like dirt. Plants. A hint of something sweet.
His ears twitched.
He froze.
…His ears. Just now. They—
Twitch.
There it was again. A twitchy little reaction at the sides of his head, responding to something he hadn't fully heard yet—
a faint rhythm in the distance.
Hoofbeats.
Wood creaking.
He pushed himself up to his hands and knees. The world swayed for a split second, then steadied. His body felt… lighter. Wrong. Not like the heavy, scarred thing he used to live in.
A dirt road ran not far from where he'd been lying, cutting between the grass and a cluster of trees. A shabby wagon rolled along it, pulled by a single brown horse. The wheels rattled, hitting stones here and there.
The wagon slowed.
Stopped.
The driver tugged the reins and leaned forward to get a better look.
He was human—round belly, tanned skin, a nose shaped like a button someone squished too hard. A brown hat with a feather jammed into it sat crooked on his head. Black hair curled out from under it. His green eyes were sharp but not unkind.
His clothes were a mix of leather and regular cloth, all in browns and deep greens like shadows under leaves. A travel-worn look. Someone used to roads, not palaces.
"Hello! Stranger!" the man called out, waving with an easy, too-bright grin. "Didn't think I'd find someone just… lying face-down in the grass this early."
The boy on the ground—
the former Dark Lord—
stared at him.
Something felt off.
Actually, a lot of things felt off.
The breeze brushed over his shoulders. Down his back. Across his stomach. Way too freely.
His eye twitched.
Slowly, dread building, he looked down.
His brain shut off.
He was naked.
No cloak.
No armor.
No gloves.
Nothing.
Just pale skin, slim limbs, and one lonely leaf doing its best to protect his dignity.
Everything else was exposed to the world, the sky, and this overly cheerful stranger.
His soul left his body for a full three seconds.
The man blinked. Then chuckled, not even bothering to hide it.
"Well, aren't you something," he said, voice dropping into a laugh. "Relax, relax. I've seen worse. Though usually after a night of heavy drinking, not in the middle of nowhere."
The stranger hopped down from the wagon with a soft grunt, boots hitting dirt. He walked to the back, lifting the hooded cover and digging through crates and bundles.
The boy tried to breathe properly.
His thoughts chased themselves in circles.
Battlefield.
Light.
Pain.
Death.
…Grass.
Nothing connected.
His memories felt cracked. Pieces existed, but the glue holding them together was gone.
"Here we go," the man's voice came again. "Try these on."
He turned.
The man held out folded clothes—
a simple, off-white shirt, a pair of brown pants, and some worn but decent leather shoes.
He hesitated.
Then grabbed them like they might disappear if he didn't.
"Th… Thanks," he muttered, looking away.
He yanked the shirt on first. It hung loose on his thin frame but it was better than air. The pants were a little long, but he rolled them at the ankles. The shoes fit almost perfectly.
He exhaled slowly.
Human embarrassment crisis: partially resolved.
"There we go," the man said, planting fists on his hips and nodding approvingly. "Now you look less like a forest spirit trying to lure travelers to their doom. Name's Richard, by the way. Merchant. Handsome. Charitable. All-around great man."
He grinned at his own joke and climbed back up to the driver's seat, patting the open space behind him.
"You want a ride? I'm heading to the capital. Plenty of people there. Food. Work. Clothes that actually fit." He paused, expression turning a touch more serious. "And it's safer than lying around for something less friendly than me to find you."
The boy swallowed.
Capital.
He didn't know what kingdom. What nation. What year.
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't even know—
…his name.
His chest tightened.
He glanced at the road. The trees. The sky. Then back to the wagon.
He had nothing.
No weapon.
No idea where to go.
"…Yeah," he said quietly. "I'll take the ride."
Richard smiled like he'd expected that answer.
"Hop in the back then, kid."
Kid.
He didn't correct him.
He climbed into the hooded wagon, settling against one of the crates. The fabric overhead turned the sunlight into soft, filtered bands that streaked across the floorboards.
The wagon lurched as Richard flicked the reins.
The horse snorted and started moving.
For a while, there was only the creak of wood and the steady rhythm of hooves.
The boy kept his eyes on his hands.
Smaller than he remembered.
Slim.
Pale.
Not the scar-mapped weapons they used to be.
Richard cleared his throat after a bit.
"So," he said, casual, light. "I told you mine. What's your name, kid?"
Name.
Right.
His mind went empty. Completely, utterly blank.
A name should've appeared—
sharp as a blade, heavy with meaning.
It didn't.
He searched harder. But the more he pulled, the more his own history slid away, like someone greased all the edges.
There was nothing there.
"…Uh," he managed, brain scrambling. He stared at the floorboards. "D… Decta."
The first sound that came to his tongue. Barely a word. Just syllables stuck together in desperation.
"Decta, huh?" Richard repeated. "New one. Can't say I've heard it before, but hey, it works."
He didn't sound suspicious.
He sounded amused.
"But I can already tell one thing," Richard added, glancing back over his shoulder with a half-smirk.
Decta blinked.
"One… thing?"
"You're not from around here," Richard said. "You've got that 'what the hell is happening' look glued to your face. And you were naked in the grass. People don't do that for fun out here. Usually."
Decta stiffened.
"…What makes you think I'm not from here?" he tried, though even he didn't sound convinced.
Richard laughed.
"You serious?" he said. "You don't even seem to realize what you are."
"What I… am?" Decta echoed.
The merchant's eyes flicked to the sides of Decta's head. Then back to the road.
"You're an elf, kid."
The word dropped like a rock in Decta's mind.
Elf.
He raised a hand, slowly this time, touching the side of his head. His fingers brushed a pointed shape, long and sleek, covered in soft skin.
His ear.
It twitched again at his own touch.
Not human.
His heart skipped.
"What's… an elf?" he muttered without thinking.
Silence.
Richard's shoulders stiffened.
"You…" he said slowly. "You're joking. Right?"
Decta's brain went white.
Backpedal. Backpedal.
"O-Oh. Haha. Yeah. Kidding," he forced out, laugh dry and brittle. "Of course I know what an elf is. Just… testing your knowledge."
The wagon filled with heavy, judging quiet.
Richard made a thoughtful noise.
"Right," he said. "Testing me. Sure."
The road kept stretching ahead.
Trees thinned. The sky stayed blue. The breeze stayed clean.
It all felt wrong.
Too peaceful.
Too… alive.
He shouldn't have been here.
The wagon jerked to an uneven halt.
Decta pitched forward, forehead smacking into the front wall.
"Ggh—!"
Richard's breathing changed.
Fast. Shaky. Out of rhythm.
"No, no, no…" the merchant muttered. "Not now. Not this close to the city…"
Decta's ears twitched again.
There it was—
giggling.
Low. Wet. Wrong.
Groaning, guttural sounds layered over it, like someone trying to talk with rotten teeth.
Richard swallowed thickly.
"…Goblins," he whispered.
Decta blinked.
Goblins?
He pushed the wagon flap aside and looked.
Six of them stood in the road, blocking the way ahead.
They were shorter than a grown man, just reaching the waist. Their skin was a filthy shade of green, like mold on old bread. Heads too big for their bodies, long noses drooping over mouths full of crooked, yellow teeth.
Their "clothes" were just torn rags. Some wore belts made of rope, others had bone trinkets hanging off them. Each gripped a wooden club that had obviously seen more skulls than trees.
The smell hit next.
Thick.
Oily.
It crawled into his nose and sat there, heavy and sour, like rot mixed with sweat and swamp water. Instinct told him to hold his breath.
Richard's hand went to the sword at his waist.
His fingers shook as they wrapped around the hilt.
"I… I can't lose this cargo," he murmured. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "Not now. Not with the city so close."
He slid off the wagon, drawing the blade with a scraping hiss. It wasn't pretty. Not special. Not magic. Just steel that had been swung enough times to matter.
The goblins cackled louder, their ugly faces twisting with excitement.
Richard sucked in a breath.
Then shouted over his shoulder:
"Kid! Sword! Back of the wagon! Wrapped in black cloth!"
Decta turned.
At the very end of the wagon lay a bundle covered in dark fabric.
He crawled over, pulled the cloth back.
A sword rested there.
It wasn't grand. Mid-length, plain, with a brown leather-wrapped hilt and a clean, sharp edge. But the moment his hand closed around it—
The world changed.
The noise faded.
The smell, the heat, the wagon—
all of it blurred for a second.
His grip shifted automatically.
Fingers settling like they'd been here a thousand times before.
Weight balancing along his arm, his shoulder adjusting without thought.
Something deep inside his chest recognized this.
Oh, his instinct said calmly.
This. I remember.
"DECTA!" Richard's shout broke the moment. "MOVE IT! THEY'RE COMING!"
Decta jumped off the back of the wagon, landing beside Richard with a small skid of dirt.
Three goblins crept toward Richard, clubs raised.
The other three shifted toward Decta, staring at him like he was a rabbit that walked into a wolf den.
They laughed.
High-pitched, ugly snorts.
Richard gritted his teeth.
"Alright," he panted. "I'll take the three on the left. You take the right. Got it!?"
Decta opened his mouth to say No, actually, I have no idea what I'm doing, but Richard had already charged.
Steel met wood with a loud crack. Sparks flew where the blades clashed. Richard moved faster than his round belly suggested, blocking a strike and pushing one goblin back.
The three in front of Decta grinned wider.
One stepped forward with jerky confidence, lifting its club overhead—
His body moved before his brain did.
Right foot forward.
Shoulders turning.
Blade rising.
The club fell.
His sword cut.
A diagonal flash of silver across green flesh.
The goblin's arm and chest opened like wet paper. Dark blood splattered the ground. The creature stumbled, confusion flickering over its face like it couldn't quite understand how its body stopped obeying.
Decta had already stepped past it.
His wrist turned.
The sword swept horizontally.
The blade kissed its neck.
For a heartbeat, the goblin remained upright.
Then its head slid off.
The body dropped a second later, spraying the dirt.
The two remaining goblins froze.
The bravado drained from their faces in an instant. One's knees buckled, and it fell back, scrambling away on all fours. The other trembled where it stood, club shaking.
The fleeing one turned its back to him.
Decta walked toward it.
One step.
Another.
His heartbeat was fast, but his hands weren't shaking.
The sword rose.
He drove it straight down into the back of its skull. The tip burst out through an eye in a spray of blood. The goblin spasmed once, then went limp.
He tore the blade free.
Silence.
He looked up.
Richard and the last goblin were just… watching him.
Both of them.
Mouths open.
The goblin's eyes snapped from Decta to the corpse at his feet, then to the decapitated one.
Its courage broke entirely.
With a panicked screech, it spun around and sprinted into the nearby trees, crashing through bushes until its smell finally faded.
Richard lowered his sword slowly.
He walked toward Decta like he wasn't sure if he was awake.
"H-How did you… do that?" he asked, voice thin.
Decta stared at the blood on his blade.
His mind finally caught up.
His stomach did a slow, delayed flip.
How DID he do that?
The answer didn't come from his mind. It came from something older, etched into his bones.
I've always known how.
"…I…" he started, voice small. "I guess I… know how to fight."
It sounded pathetic even to him.
Richard just stared a few seconds longer.
Then laughed. Loudly. Hard.
"'Guess,' he says!" he barked, and this time when he clapped a hand on Decta's shoulder, it almost knocked him off his feet. "Kid, that was cleaner than a trained guard. You saved my life and my goods. I'd hate to think what those things would've done if it was just me."
Decta winced at the impact.
Praise felt… weird.
"Since you saved my ass," Richard continued, grin wide and genuinely relieved, "I'll make sure you're fed properly when we hit the city. Best inn I know. My treat."
Decta swallowed.
Food.
Shelter.
A place that wasn't a battlefield.
"…Okay," he said quietly. "I'll… hold you to that."
They cleaned their weapons as best they could on the grass, then climbed back onto the wagon.
Hours passed.
Trees grew sparser. The road widened. The air picked up new smells—baking bread, smoke from kitchens, people.
At last, something huge loomed ahead.
Walls.
A massive stone barrier cut across the land, tall enough to hide whatever was behind it. A main gate sat in the center, reinforced with iron bands. Guard towers flanked it like watchful eyes.
Beyond the wall, roofs and towers peeked over the top. Lines of chimney smoke rose into the sky.
Decta's stomach growled loudly at the first real whiff of seasoned food.
Richard snorted.
"Good sign," he said. "Means you're alive. That's the capital, kid. Welcome to… well, the only place that matters for people like us."
They rolled up to the gate.
Two guards in chain and partial plate stood there, spears crossed loosely. One stepped forward, hand out.
"Merchant's permit," he said, voice bored but alert.
Richard was ready. He handed over a folded slip of parchment with a polite smile that somehow became professional in an instant.
The guard opened it, scanned the ink, then circled the wagon. His gaze passed over crates, boxes, tied-down bundles.
Then his eyes landed on Decta.
He stopped.
Walked a bit closer.
Those eyes lingered on the pointed ears.
"And the elf?" he asked. The boredom vanished. Suspicion settled in instead.
"That's my companion," Richard replied smoothly, though a nervous bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "Picked him up on the road after a goblin attack. He saved my cargo. Doesn't talk much, but swings a sword well enough."
The guard stared at him for a long moment.
Decta made the smart choice and kept his mouth shut.
Finally, the guard raised his hand.
"Let them through," he called.
The other guard pulled a lever. The heavy gate shuddered, then began to open slowly with a grinding sound.
Light and noise spilled out like a different world was waiting on the other side.
It kind of was.
Inside the walls, the capital was… alive.
Stone streets bustled with people—humans in tunics and cloaks, other elves with varying shades of hair, beard-heavy dwarves, and a few other races Decta couldn't even name yet. Market stalls lined the streets, overflowing with fruit, vegetables, meat skewers, fresh bread, fabrics, and weird trinkets.
Voices overlapped.
Merchants called out deals.
Kids laughed and chased each other.
Someone cursed about prices.
Someone else flirted badly.
The smells hit him all at once—roasting meat, baking bread, sweat, spices, a hint of ale.
His mouth watered.
Richard steered the wagon off to one side and pulled it to a stop.
"There," he said, nodding toward a smaller building with a wooden sign swinging over the door. "That's an inn. Good food. Decent beds. Not too many rats."
He untied the reins and began loosening the harness.
"You go on ahead, Decta. Grab us a seat inside. I'll take the horse to the stable and follow."
"Got it," Decta replied.
He climbed down and walked toward the inn.
People stared.
Not everyone. Just enough.
Their gazes dipped to his ears. His unfamiliar clothes. His wary, too-tense posture.
He swallowed and pushed through the door.
Warmth hit first.
A fire crackled somewhere. The room buzzed with conversation—drunk laughter, clinking mugs, the low murmur of gossip. Wooden tables filled the main space, some occupied by groups half-shouting stories at each other.
The moment he stepped inside, a handful of heads turned.
Silence didn't dominate the room, but it stretched just long enough for him to feel it press against his skin.
An elf. Alone. In borrowed clothes.
Then the noise resumed.
"Looking for a seat, sir?" a bright voice chirped near him.
He turned.
A girl stood there, maybe a bit younger than him, with red hair tied into two messy braids. Her eyes were a warm, golden yellow, big and round. Freckles dotted her nose. An apron sat over a simple dress.
She smiled like the sun.
His heart did a weird little skip.
"…Yeah," he said, stumbling over the word. "A seat would be… nice."
"Okay! Follow me!" she said, turning on her heel with a bounce.
He followed, weaving through tables as she guided him deeper inside.
He could feel a few of the stares follow him. Curiosity. Wariness.
Why are they looking at me like—
His thought cut off.
Something soft hit his face.
Or rather, his face hit something soft.
Very soft.
And warm.
And—
yeah, absolutely not a wall.
Time slowed.
He inhaled the faint scent of flowers.
The inn went quiet in a ripple.
Very slowly, eyes wide with dread, he looked up.
A woman towered over him.
Tall. Taller than him by a decent margin. Silver hair slid down her back and over her shoulders in smooth waves. Her eyes were a piercing, glacier-blue, narrowed in confusion that rapidly shifted to horror.
His face was currently buried in her chest.
…Directly.
Her expression went blank with shock for one fragile second.
Then her cheeks flushed.
Red.
Redder.
Red enough to rival the sky of his old world.
"Y–YOU!!!" she sputtered. "YOU PERVERT!!!"
Her knee rocketed up before he had a chance to move.
Pain exploded through his entire being, radiating from one extremely unlucky point.
His soul detached, went on a short vacation, and came back just to suffer.
He crumpled to the floor, hands between his legs, eyes watering.
Kill me.
Someone kill me. Right now.
"You think you can just walk in here," she shouted, voice shaking with rage and embarrassment, "and—and defile me like that!?"
"I-It was an accident," he croaked, barely getting words out. "I swear— I wasn't— I didn't—"
She didn't look convinced.
She looked like she wanted to punt him through the nearest wall.
Survival instincts kicked in hard.
He scrambled to his feet and bolted for the door.
"GET BACK HERE!" she yelled.
He launched himself out of the inn and onto the street, boots skidding on cobblestone.
His heart hammered in his throat.
"IM SORRY!!!" he shouted over his shoulder, sprinting down the road.
People stepped aside quickly, turning to watch the scene unfold like free theater.
Her footsteps thundered behind him. She was fast. Way too fast for someone that tall.
"STOP RUNNING, YOU CREEP!" she roared.
"WHY WOULD I STOP?!" he screamed back, barely making the turn around a corner. "YOU JUST TRIED TO KILL MY FUTURE KIDS!"
He darted past stalls, nearly collided with a man carrying bread, and dodged a cart at the last second.
"HELP ME!" he yelled at no one in particular. "I DIDN'T DO IT ON PURPOSE!"
No one helped.
Of course they didn't.
In a world he didn't know, in a body that wasn't his, with memories that broke when he touched them—
The former Dark Lord did what he apparently did best:
He ran.
And somewhere, buried under the panic and humiliation, a quiet, bitterly amused thought flickered:
Great. Second life. Still cursed.
That was the moment his new story truly began.